As they rattled along the narrow lane, the weedy hedgerows twinkling with dew, and errant wild blackberry canes whipping and scraping across the oxidised paintwork, the ominous vibration from the back end of the Land Rover began to increase and amplify.

As Joan drove, her expression was grim and determined, and her hands clasped the steering wheel resolutely as the dissonant shaking threatened to wrench it from her grip. Come hell or high water, she was going to ensure that the appalling Edith was on that train because the alternative just did not bear thinking about.

Realising that she was grinding her jaw, her mind went back to the last time she had felt this resolute and intractable, and she recalled her final, bitter and rancorous conversation with her father, Henry. As she had waited for the taxi to take her to the station, where she would undertake her final train journey to Cornwall as an unmarried woman, she stood implacably in the hallway as he had blustered, threatened, and admonished. When she had turned her back on him to leave, and had heard him coldly disowning her, disinheriting her, and cursing her for the ages, she had been too furious to feel any sort of regret. That came later of course, when he died alone in his study on a cold winter afternoon, having never spoken to him again since her distressing departure; still regrettably estranged, having never resolved their differences, having never reconciled.

As they accelerated up the hill, there was a pronounced thumping which appeared to be emanating from the rear axle. Feeling a pang of anxiety, Joan flexed her jaw, and offered up a silent prayer to the patron saint of Land Rovers, whoever and wherever they might be. Approaching the intersection with the main road, she began to pump the brakes. As she slowed, she noticed a large vehicle bearing down on them, evidently at some speed, so she pressed down hard on the clutch pedal and changed down to second. The other vehicle appeared to slow too as it came closer and Joan cursed under her breath, reluctant to bring hers to a complete halt in case she stalled. Momentarily, she considered accelerating out in front of it but, sensibly, thought better of it. Muttering encouragement to the engine, she stabbed at the pedals, double declutched and, as Edith gasped and reached up to grab the handle above the door, they lurched to a squeaky and shuddering, sudden stand still.

As it whizzed across in front of them, Joan was surprised to see that the speeding vehicle was in fact the new minibus from Hightrees Rest Home; it's name proudly emblazoned along its length, bespectacled, blue-haired faces at each window. Old biddies out on day trip, she surmised, thinking that having to live in a retirement home, surrendering ones dignity and submitting to dreary, organised amusement, would be her absolute worst nightmare.

A hill start, with her ancient Land Rover about to succumb to metal worm and suffer some sort of inexplicable engineering catastrophe, probably came a close second for Joan in the nightmare stakes but that's what she was about to attempt. Revving the engine, she eased off the clutch and released the handbrake. Simultaneously, there was a deafening bang, a bone shaking shudder and, as Joan swore loudly with alarm and as the engine spluttered and stalled, suddenly there was an ominous silence.

Pressing her forehead against the steering wheel, Joan swore again, before switching off the ignition and clambering out on to the lane. Furious, she slammed the door and only just managed to restrain herself from kicking the tyre, such was her frustration. The only consolation was that they had at least reached the main road and, hopefully, there would be another villager along shortly who would undoubtedly assist them. She glanced down at her watch. Still plenty of time, she told herself, no need to panic.

After walking around the vehicle once, and feeling rather like a cavalry officer about to have to shoot their favourite horse, Joan opened her door again and reached in to pop the bonnet. Edith looked at her quizzically.

"I hope this doesn't mean you might be late for chapel, Jill." She purred and her tone dripped with malevolence.

"What?" Joan barked at her before suddenly remembering the alleged plan for the day, muttering an uncomfortable and less-than-convincing affirmation, and ducking rapidly out on to the lane again.

Wrestling with the heavy and cumbersome weight, and the unwieldy wire prop that supported it, she finally managed to raise the bonnet; a sign to all passers-by that she needed assistance. Glancing at the cold, smug face of her passenger, Joan decided to sit on the running boards and await rescue, confident that help would soon be on hand.

In fact, barely five minutes had passed when, to her immense relief, she saw another approaching vehicle which bore down on them, noisily, at breakneck speed. Joan leapt to her feet and began to wave. She was relieved to hear the engine slow and, as they came close enough, to realise that they were locals who were certain to assist her cheerfully, come what may.

Joan was correct. Her rescuers were locals; salt of the earth fisherman who knew these roads like the back of their hands, their newer-model two-door, flat deck Land Rover laden with crayfish pots and fish crates, it's windows filthy and barely translucent. They pulled up opposite, in a hail of stones and dirt, and the driver wound down his window, greeting Joan warmly.

"Baz. Artie. Glad to see you." She replied enthusiastically.

"Aye aye." Baz said cheerfully. "Looks like you could do with a hand."

"I think the diff's blown." Joan explained calmly.

The fisherman thrust a hairy, heavily muscled arm out of the window and opened his door with the external handle. Still wearing his oilskins, he swung his legs around and leapt to his feet.

"Sounds terminal." He said, running his hands though his long, luxurious, wavy, strawberry blonde locks. "Lemme take a look."

"Umm, sadly yes, and thank you Baz, but I have another, rather more pressing matter." Joan said quietly, gesturing at her passenger with her thumb. "I need to get her to the station."

She pulled a face at him and he responded with a slow grin, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

"London train?" He asked quietly and she nodded.

"Right then." Baz said with a smile and turned back to his vehicle. "Artie, we need a hand over here."

Artie emerged and nodded at Joan, a smouldering cigar stub clenched between his teeth which were uncannily similar in colour to the yellow waterproof over trousers which, like his grey wooden hat, he seemed in which to be permanently clad. Artie was the elder of the two; his hair was equally long but, unlike his brother, it was grey and straggly. Long ago, he had shaven off his moustache, tired of the tea stains, persistent dampness and the way tobacco and crumbs seemed to accumulate in its lower reaches, but he was too fond of his beard so now it was as long and grizzled and cascading as his hair and, secretly, his pride and joy.

Wordlessly, employing the same brotherly ESP that they had come to rely on at sea, Artie began to clear a space on the deck of the Land Rover, while Joan wandered around to Edith's side of the vehicle and gestured for her to get out. Too stunned to object, she complied, standing guardedly on the road and wondering what fresh hell awaited her as she stared unenthusiastically at their rescuers.

Joan attempted to retrieve her case from the sheep crate but was alarmed to see that, during the drive, the handle had detached itself, and she called for Baz to assist her. When he saw the case, he pulled a rueful face and, with some difficulty, retrieved it for her, carrying it back to his vehicle under his massive arm before sitting it on the seat and reaching for his knife. After a few moments he had lashed it together with some old fishing rope, and fashioned a makeshift handle with which to carry it. Baz was oblivious to the eye-wateringly strong stench of fish that the rope exuded but, even if he did notice, he would have only thought it a great bleddy joke to send a Londoner home with such an appropriate Port Wenn souvenir.

Happy that it was secure enough to survive the journey, he tossed it to his brother who slung it effortlessly up onto the deck. He turned towards Edith and gave her an innocent smile.

"Best we get you to the station then." He said, folding his arms and standing next to his brother expectantly.

Edith hesitated. She looked over at Joan and then, reluctantly, back at the fishermen. With some horror she realised that, not only was she going to have to ride on the back of the Land Rover but the only way she was going to be able to clamber up was if she was manhandled by these two slovenly, malodorous yokels. Whilst generally not averse to a bit of manhandling, this really was the ultimate indignity for her in an utterly appalling and humiliating weekend. Unfortunately, it seemed she had no choice so best to get on with it, she thought, because the quicker this was all over and done with, the quicker she could start to forget about it. Grimacing up at them both, and without saying a word, Edith prepared for the worst.

Joan, while not wishing ill on the woman, couldn't help but smile to herself as she watched on, imagining the joy of relaying the details later on. She doubted that Martin would find it amusing but she knew Louisa would be absolutely tickled pink.

"Might be coolish like, but t'ain't far." Artie said cheerfully as he inelegantly hoisted Edith skywards and she clumsily launched herself forward onto the deck, clutching wildly at the pots to steady herself.

She grabbed hold of the rail and slid down to a seated position in the tiny space that he had created for her, grateful for her choice of trousers for the journey, but for little else as the hard, cold, wooden deck offered no comfort to her flaccid, bony bottom. Clutching her handbag and pulling her knees eyes up to her chest, her eyes glazed over as she prepared to meet her fate.

Baz turned away, gave Joan a sly wink and clambered back into the drivers seat.

"S'alright Joan, we don't mind takin' an angry redhead off your hands." Artie said with a grin, stroking his long beard, a thoughtful gleam in his heavily lidded eyes. "Though a nice chicken pie'd take my mind off the inconvenience..."

"A chicken pie it is." Joan replied with a wicked twinkle, placing her tongue firmly in her cheek before glancing over at Edith and adding quietly. "And, Artie, she's not a redhead. Well, not a natural one anyway."